I Am No Gentleman
by Hell's Sweet Whispers
Summary: Just a short piece inspired by how I think Gilbert would look in the moonlight and Everything We Had by The Academy Is...


I am no gentle, I can be a prick,  
But I do regret, More than I'd admit  
- Everything We Had by The Academy Is…

Hetalia

Ivan growls in frustration. He called his house guest down for dinner over _three_ hours ago. First, he didn't have the dignity to show up for supper, which he certainly not getting any now. Then he had the nerve to not be in any of the rooms he'd bashed open in his search. He's managed to open every door in this ridiculously large house and there was still no trace of his silver-haired bird. That only leaves one place he could be. Angrily, he shoves his arms into his long winter coat, adjusting his scarf to better block out the cold. He opens the door with enough force for the doorknob to leave a dent in the wall.

He moves through the thick layers of snow, easily spotting foot shaped dents. He should have known by now to look our here first. It is quiet out tonight. The only sound coming from the crunch of snow under his boots. The dark clouds that had previously occupied the sky are long gone reveling the night sky. The moon is visible for the first time in four days. It is large, round, and bright. Its light casts an eerie glow over the fresh snow making it twinkle like the stars. Ivan feels his anger subside slightly at the almost mystical scenery.

He knew exactly where his bird had gone. He had gone to the edge of his cage. Perhaps he was singing his sweet song to the other side. Calling for help. Ivan hated that song. Not only because it was the only one his bird would sing nowadays but because he's only allowed his brother to hear it. His anger swells again as he thought of it. He approaches the small clearing the wall cut through with every intention of dragging his bird home and forcing out a different song. That was his idea at least until he steps into the clearing.

His bird is just as he predicted. Face risen, looking over the top of his cage. A soft melancholy song floating in the air. It is like every other time Ivan has caught him out here. Yet it isn't. Later Ivan will blame the moon. In its light he looks surreal. His usually pale skin shines a pure snow white. His silver hair looks more like a smaller, softer version of the moon, watching over him. His fly-aways creating a silver halo over his head. The cheek that is in Ivan's line of view is sparkling with tears. He looks like a child of the moon, fallen to earth with no way home. Ivan stands still, braving the cold to watch his fallen angel.

He may be a child of the cold, a child of darkness. But his bird is a child of the moon. Pretty to watch but always out of reach. He doesn't burn his eyes like Alfred who is too bright for someone so used to the dark. His bird's light is soft but still radiant enough to fill even the blackest corners.

Finally, when red eyes flicker in his direction and the song abruptly cuts off, Ivan makes his way towards his precious bird. The bird frantically wipes the tears from his face, refusing to show Ivan his weakness. Closing the distance between them, Ivan reaches a hand out to help remove the wetness from his face. He knows his bird hates his cage. His hand is slapped away. But Ivan has already felt the icy chill on his skin. He frowns. His purple eyes flicker down, taking in a coatless figure.

"Let's go," he orders, albeit softer than usual. Moon-bird frowns in protest, unmoving. The rebellion is ruined by a tiny sneeze. Ivan begins to worry his bird is sick. He isn't sure if his bird is strong enough to fight off yet another sickness. Removing his scarf, he wraps it around the other's neck, with deliberate slowness so as not to startle him. Red eyes narrow as Ivan's hands travel down to cold ungloved ones. He doesn't speak. He has long since learned how just how much the Russian enjoys his songs and now denies him all songs.

With hands clasped Ivan can feel the trembles and shudders the other is trying to suppress. Frowning deeply, Ivan unzips his jacket. The cold slips into the opening causing him to shudder. Ignoring it, he holds the sides open wider, engulfing his bird who struggles immensely. Being the stronger of the two the Russian waits patiently for his bird to tire himself out. He gives up gives up sooner than usual, heightening his fear of illness. When he is plaint in his grip, Ivan hoists him up, pressing his frozen body to his cool one. His bird's head flops onto his shoulder, his body trembling violently as the cold is tears at it.

"Let's get you warm, da?" he says heading back to the house. He can feel his bird's eyes on the wall. His shoulders become damp with shedding tears. He will not apologize. It does not matter how much it hurts him to be locked away in this frozen tundra. He wouldn't- couldn't- let him out. So he won't say he's sorry. He won't voice his regrets. He'll keep his bird close in his arms, in the cage that keeps them both.


End file.
